


bite the hand

by cassandralied



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, F/F, Murder, Porn with minimal Plot, Power Dynamics, james bond ish?, killing eve ish?, thin line and all that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28401246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandralied/pseuds/cassandralied
Summary: the problem is, codename daisy is a killer. a trained assassin, the best of the best.the problem is, agent hussain has been dancing on the edge of a knife for a while now.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	bite the hand

Basira’s in London for business.

Stop. Start over.

Basira’s always in London for business, just like she was in Tokyo for business, and New Delhi before that. Basira doesn’t go anywhere unless it’s for business.  
Assassins don’t have time for pleasure. Especially not government-sponsored ones.

She arrives at her hotel earlier than expected, a vision in dark blue hijab and long trenchcoat, the heels of her ankle boots unforgiving on the pavement.   
They don’t have the room ready yet, so Basira goes to the street-side cafe, orders a black coffee, and sits.  
Waits.  
A beautiful blonde takes the empty seat opposite to her without asking. She’s not smiling, not exactly. The expression on her face is too cold to be a real smile.  
Basira removes her sunglasses, folds them. It’s raining outside, but she’s grown committed to a certain aesthetic.  
“Agent Tonner.”

“Agent Hussain.” Daisy’s lips are painted red, and they curl bloody. She’s ripped a man’s throat out with her teeth alone. It’s in her file. 

Daisy says then , low and intimate — “ _Basira.”_

Basira looks down first, stirs her coffee and tries to hide the way that Daisy’s low voice purring her name affects her. “It’s been some time.”  
“Since our fuck in that shitty Midwestern motel?”

With effort, Basira doesn't give her the reaction she’s hoping for, but Daisy’s voice curls around her insides, holds her organs hostage until she might need them again. She swallows, and they both pretend Daisy isn’t watching her throat move.  
“You do have a way with words, don’t you, Agent Tonner?”

“Not an agent anymore.” Daisy reaches over and takes a long drink of Basira’s coffee, even though she hates it without milk. Sets the cup down in front of herself, a dare. “Working freelance, now.”

“Congratulations. Setting your own hours, all that?”  
“Having my own meetings and everything.”

The harsh lights of the cafe hit the sharp angles of Daisy’s cheekbones. They create shadows and make her look cruel. _(She’s always looked cruel.)_

“What does our Miss Cane think of that?”

Daisy smirks, satisfied. “She wanted to know who’s holding my leash.”

“And what did you tell her?”

Those green eyes flick up to hers, radioactive in their intensity. “You.”

* * *

  
When they pay their bill and leave to fuck, they eschew Basira’s five-star reservation for the deliberately shitty flat that Daisy calls home.

She picks worse and worse places every time, like a challenge. Like she wants to offend Basira’s delicate sensibilities, and sometimes Basira wants to scoff at her, _Please. I’ve seen you swallow a man’s tongue. That stain above your bed doesn’t impress me._

“Take off your clothes,” Basira orders. Daisy doesn’t argue; she never does, three-headed puppy on a leash. Off goes the overlarge white button-up, crumpling on the floor like it’s offended at the way it’s been treated.

It’s a little terrifying, having the world’s most dangerous killer at her beck and call. But — Daisy drops to her knees in one motion, hands coming up to caress Basira’s clothed thighs, eyes like a student at worship — it’s a rush unlike any other, a rush that naive rookie agent Hussain, the one who joined MI6 to fix the world, might have called love.

Daisy mouths at Basira’s crotch through her pants, hot and wet and disgusting. Basira makes sure to tell her this, and Daisy moans a little.  
Basira allows Daisy to slide her trousers off, and her trenchcoat hangs neatly on one of the spare hooks by the door, but her hijab and sweater stay on. It had been one of Basira’s rules, and Daisy leaves her upper half immaculate even as she sucks and bites atop faded hickeys into the tender flesh of Basira’s thighs.

“I saw a woman who looked like you in a bar,” Daisy says afterwards. They aren’t the cuddling type, but they both lie together on the bare, stained mattress, just breathing: Basira fully dressed from the waist up, Daisy naked and defiled, a wild thing with fresh scratches down her cheek still bloody.

“What did you do?” Basira asks, as if she doesn’t know. As if she hasn’t seen every one of Codename Daisy’s personality tests, studied them obsessively. As if Daisy isn’t in her marrow by now.

Maybe Daisy can tell she’s getting off on this, because she draws out her words, tiptoeing her fingers upwards from Basira’s knee. “I bought her a drink. Something with an umbrella in it. I talked to her real sweet, and I brought her upstairs.”

The hand is reaching dangerous territory, as it tiptoes past Basira’s vagina and onto the unspoiled wool of her maroon sweater. Further, further — just inches shy of her nipple, and Basira lets out a harsh breath. “Then what?”  
“I got her clothes off. She had real curly hair, thick and black, and I wondered if that’s what your hair looks like under the cloth.” The hand reaches the collar of Basira’s sweater, the cotton of her hijab. Agonizingly slow, it curls around Basira’s throat. 

  
“Did you fuck her?” Basira gasps. Daisy’s eyes won’t stop staring into hers. They aren’t emotionless like a killer’s should be; no, they’re so full of emotion that Basira’s amazed Daisy hasn’t exploded into glitter and gore on her paint-speckled walls. 

  
The question doesn’t matter. Killing is like sex, for Daisy, and women who look like Basira and act like lambs before slaughter don’t make it out alive in any version of the story.

“Ask me nicely,” Daisy says. Slow, sloppy, breaking every rule, she presses a kiss to Basira’s jaw just as she begins applying the slightest pressure to Basira’s throat.  
Basira says every word as deliberately as a death sentence — _“Did you fuck her, you murdering bitch.”_

Daisy groans.  
“You desperate slut,” Basira’s cut off by the lack of air as Daisy’s hand tightens, almost spastically.  
“I killed her,” Daisy Tonner says, with no small amount of delight at the way Basira’s pupils have surely dilated. “I choked her on this mattress, and in the morning I cut her up and weighted her down in the Thames.”

Basira tries to say something, but she can’t breathe.  
“You wouldn’t have accepted a drink from a stranger,” Daisy rasps as black spots dance at the edge of Basira’s vision. She’s not in control. _She’s not in control, and it’s terrifying._

Daisy’s voice is low and just as rough as if it’s her throat being slowly compressed. “You’re too smart for that, aren’t you?”  
And now she lets Basira go, just before she blacks out, and Basira coughs and gasps out, “I’ll always be too smart for you, Tonner.”

Daisy smiles thinly, and presses a kiss to Basira’s forehead.   
“I'll see you in Seoul, love.”

* * *

She thinks Daisy really might kill her one of these days.  
Maybe that’s why she keeps going back.

Basira boards the plane to South Korea, her next assignment, as one hand rises to touch the covered bruises on her neck.


End file.
